


ceramics

by atlasarchivist



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Gen, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlasarchivist/pseuds/atlasarchivist
Summary: morinth and her sisters make the mug described in samara’s shadow broker dossier.





	ceramics

“Her things are still here,” he says, this Commander of the Alliance, this exile she feels indebted to. “Do with them as you wish.”

She stands before the wide open window, the one that reflects the frequency of light and makes it as though the stars have come to life. It is quiet in this space and it smells of her, the mother she lost to a bygone code.

“Is there anything you need?” The Commander asks with a disinterested, dismissive tone.

“I am accustomed to fending for myself. I will be fine, thank you Shepard.” She responds with a small, sly grin as fingers trail the threads of her mother’s clothes.

“Stay away from Kelly, she asks a lot of questions and watch for -” she waves a hand for him to stop, smile spreading apart plump lips.

“I am also accustomed to hiding. Hers is a part I have played before, though I admit I never expected to have to call upon a reprisal.” She takes easy strides to the legendary man, turning her chin submissively and batting her large blues easily.

“Very well.” He leaves her with a single nod and the soft swoosh of the door closing behind him.

She sighs heavily now that she is alone. She removes the headpiece her mother wore, tossing it aside carelessly. She lounges, taking sweet satisfaction in her new triumph. There is a box of her mother’s things, a faded thing with dents and marks and it rattles when it shifts. She stares at it a while before the curiosity overtakes her and she peeks inside.

Folded letters, a broken omni-gel converter, faded photos of her bondmate and a chipped ceramic mug, broken and stuck back together many times over. She feels tainted by the sight of it. Girlish hands and squeals made a thing to bring comfort to their mother, only to see it shatter moments later.

She had been grieving the loss of their father, wretched day in and out, never leaving her bed even for the most base of needs. She left little Falere and Rila in her care, expecting a young and bright-eyed maiden to play the role of mother & caretaker while she loused about in her great depression.

Do something with them, Mira. I don’t care. She remembers - unwashed, tired and hollow eyes. Little hands and sad expressions, rain and ash, the house too quiet and the scent of old food. Falere held the hem of Mirala’s dress, pulling her along while Rila kicks her legs and keeps a nose tucked in a book. Sweet and bright-eyed Falere wants to do something for Mother, wants to make her feel better. But already I am jaded, already I am malcontent.

But they hear Mother crying in the middle of the night, they hear her pleas to the goddess and her host of demons both to return Father to us. They know she laments that she’s alone and has the burden of their care. She loves them but it was never in the plans for Father to die so suddenly. Rila retreated into quiet, Falere is too young to understand and Mirala is left to carry them along. The young maiden learned to cook, to clean and wash. She learned to show a kind eye, a gentle hand and gain an animated voice for all the storytelling. She clothes them, readies them and instills lessons they will hold for the whole of their life.

Morinth, the one who is now but a faint shadow of the girl before, runs a scarred finger over the edge of the broken cup. The crude ceramic feels familiar and gives an air of longing. Her mind is traveling backward, through all the memories she has collected.

She sat next to Falere with her fat, child fingers covered in clay and paint. Rila smiled with big teeth though two were missing in the front. Mirala, the girl lost to adrenaline and debauchery, ignores the slam and shatter coming from the other room. And the task is becoming easier, this blissful ignorance is becoming routine. Rila and Falere are so small, need so much and she’s the only one to give it.

Look, Mira! Look! A little screech from the youngest sister, small hands wrapped around a misshapen prize. The handle curves oddly, the width lopsided but the bright pink and yellow paint splashed in chaos around the edge gives it charm.

Do you think Mommy will feel better soon? Falere asks in a lisp that Morinth has to search the deep recesses of her mind to place. The voice that would later sing songs in ethereal notes, a sound that climbed and climbed so effortlessly started as a squeak.

Do you think she’ll like it? It cracks her heart to hear her ask with confusion in her terribly blue eyes. She is just so little, so misunderstanding of why Mommy does not tuck her in or tell her to brush her teeth. Why is it Mira who does those things, Morinth knew she wondered. Does she wonder now, locked away in a gilded cage? Does Rila remind her or is it just a child’s memory, pieces missing and scenes out of line?

They present the handcrafted and flawed thing along with dinner. She does not look at it, or the food Mirala had been so careful in preparing. She stares beyond the three that share her features, she hardly moves an inch but the tears still stream down her face. Mother whom they find so beautiful is cutting a tragic figure, wasting away in her depression, her emaciated form spinning down into disparaged depths.

She holds the weathered gift, repaired so many times over so very carefully, so delicately. She does not remember if Mother ever thanked her daughters, but it is clear she valued that part of their lives, mourned it and lamented its loss. Morinth feels the fractures where it has been broken and knows it is a reflection of her too. She lost much in running, forgotten pieces left to rot aside the long and winding road. She mourns the little girl she can hardly remember, the one she used to be so long before, the one she is not really even sure existed at all.

She puts the box of Mother’s things aside, afraid to spoil the memories further. It is the first time she regrets, the first crack in the hard as iron mask she has grown so used to wearing. The mug she leaves, standing proud and alone on the little shelf in the Observatory. A new constant, a reminder she covets and wants though she would be hard-pressed to admit it. There is a pang in her chest, one that shouts the name of her sisters and shows her the face of the mother she once had, the love she once craved and the family she mourns each and every passing day.


End file.
